Underground

A poem about my dad...

I've never been,
I don't know if I ever will
Sadness, guilt light up the stones,
Like early April sun
A black tie constricts me
Tears flow unexpectedly
Old, wise hands protect me.
But I'll always be alone.

Balding men,
Apply the final touch
A single flower
On expensive wood.
Who is he?
Why him, not me,
It's his job, but this is no place for employment.
Who wants to be the final warmth of a cold dead body?

Still, a black car awaits,
We travel to our new life.
Sunshine seems a bit inappropriate
Casting light in a darkened room.
I'll close the curtains.

I think of night
Lying asleep, anonymous.
What difference does it make if you're
Underground.